Makes You Stranger
by caseyface
Summary: Movieverse: Post Dark Knight. Spoilers. Fist installment of the House of Wolves series. She's everything the Joker is not. Gotham tries to pick up the pieces, but the shards are sharper than they appear. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Arkham Asylum has always been the gothic, horror movie cliché with it's isolation, notorious history, and grim demeanor. The people who work there tend to border on the line of insanity that so many of their patients have already crossed. The building has been bombed, raided, flooded and set alight several times throughout it's use as an asylum, and it's caretakers all have a knack for being deranged, sadistic, corrupt and power-hungry.

The newest addition to the staff seems the one exception to this outline of Arkham Faculty, and seems to be the only one approved for treating the asylum's newest addition to it's patients.

-

"Doctor Quinzel!"

She looks up sharply, startled and fumbling with her attaché and purse and almost drops both. "O-oh! Goodness! Yes?" She gingerly bends down in her pencil skirt to pick up her phone and several other effects that had spilled from her purse.

The parking garage is barely lit, and it unnerves the young doctor to have someone call her name without showing themselves. She quickly pulls her keys out of her purse, her toffee-hued hair tied back in a tight ponytail. "Is someone there?"

"Sorry, doctor," A young man steps forward in a black trench coat over a suit and has a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. "I was hoping I could have a word with you about your recent agreement to work at Arkham Asylum."

Doctor Quinzel sees the tape recorder in his hand, her jaw instantly setting into a frown. "I'm afraid I'm far too busy to spend time chatting with the press."

"But is it true that you're the only doctor in Gotham that's been given clearance to treat The Joker?" The reporter hisses, Doctor Quinzel backing up against her little red Jetta. Quickly she opens the door and jumps in, starting her car.

"No comment!" She snaps, revving the engine, backing out of her parking space, and speeding off. Sighing, she shakes her head, her thick-rimmed glasses askew in front of her icy blue eyes.

The cell phone in her purse rings, and she jumps in her seat, rummaging to answer. "D-doctor Quinzel, how may I help you?"

"Good evening, Doctor." She instantly recognizes the voice as Commissioner Gordon and lets out a sigh of relief.

"Good evening, Commissioner." She breathes, stopping at a red light. "Can I help you?"

"First, is everything alright?" He asks on the other end of the line, and he sounds genuinely concerned. "You haven't been getting calls again, have you? We can have your number changed again-"

"N-no, Commissioner. No more calls." Doctor Quinzel answers, adjusting her blouse before stepping on the gas. "I did get some letters, though. But it's not a big deal. Not everything is a laughing matter when you're a doctor…"

"Are you sure you're up for this?"

"Commissioner," She frowns, signaling to turn into the next lane. "I agreed to take this job because I was told that it had to be done, that it was the right thing to do, and that Harvey would have only entrusted me to do it."

"He said you're one of the best…" The commissioner sounds vague, and Doctor Quinzel hangs her head. Harvey Dent has been dead for a month now, and it was a blow to her when she found out. They'd been best friends in high-school and through college. Many people thought Harvey and Harlene were long lost twin siblings, and it had shaken her to her core when she'd been told he was murdered.

And now she was getting death threats of her own. For agreeing to treat the Joker.

"I am," She answers, voice firm and cold. "No one else has the balls to do it… and actually, I was just on my way to pay you a visit."

"I have company, but I'm sure you'd want to talk to him also." When the commissioner says this, Doctor Quinzel assumes he's speaking of the new DA or the new Mayor or something along those lines. Still, she keeps her mind open to another candidate. _Maybe he's chatting it up with the Batman._

"I'll see you in a bit," She says, hanging up a moment later.

-

The commissioner's office has its curtains drawn and the door is locked, leaving the Doctor no choice but to knock and wait. When she steps into the room, she steps back against the door, but doesn't make any noise.

Standing by the commissioner's desk is the vigilante. Doctor Quinzel adjusts her glasses, blinking a few times. "Commissioner…?"

"It's a very long story, Doctor." Commissioner Gordon sighs, "One you need to know if you're going to be dealing with the Joker."

-

And so, Harlene Quinzel is debriefed the story of what happened to Harvey Dent and his fiancé. She's told of how he left the hospital he'd been recovering in, his vengeful tirade, his physical and mental breakdown, and by the time the tale is over, the doctor's head is bowed and her sapphire eyes are closed.

"It wasn't his fault." She says sharply, cutting into the commissioner's condolences. "He had lost everything. He had lost his mind. He wasn't entirely responsible for his actions, no matter how much he thought they made sense."

The Batman stands in the corner of the room, trying to ascertain the doctor's demeanor. Stoic and unyielding, she's set in her own system of thoughts and doesn't once lose her composure.

"Thank you for telling me this, Commissioner." She sighs, standing and turning to the faux murderer in the corner. "I never truly believed you killed him, you know. It's against your belief structure."

Instantly, she's got him pegged, and the Batman inwardly frowns further. Just what he needs- a shink able to pick him apart like he's not wearing a mask at all. Doctor Quinzel slips her glasses back on and picks up her purse, turning to Commissioner Gordon and resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll be starting tomorrow."

-

The drive back to her apartment is silent, and Harlene's face is set in an mask-like appearance, void of all emotion. When she steps out of the Jetta in the parking garage, she rests her forehead against the open door before shutting it and heading to the elevators. The doctor has a hard time opening her door- someone tried to pick the lock again, and she'll have to get it replaced tomorrow while she's out.

The door shuts, and Harlene takes a breath before crumbling to the floor. Head in her hands, she sobs dryly, grieving for her old friend all over again, now knowing the truth to his death.

-

"Doctor Quinzel!"

"A moment, Doctor?!"

"No comment!"

"Doctor!"

"No goddamn comment!" Doctor Quinzel snaps, heading up the stairs that are the front entrance to Arkham Asylum. "And you can quote me, you packrats!"

She knows she's playing the part well- the part of secret Batman advocate and open Joker wet nurse. And she hasn't even talked to the psychopath yet. She walks down the hall with her head held high, her black heels clicking on the floor, her black pencil skirt pressed, her white blouse wrinkle-free, her posture that to rival any trained soldier's, and her face yet again an emotionless mask.

"Doctor Quinzel-"

"No comment, you fuc- oh!" She spins around, realizing she almost cursed out her boss. "I am so sorry, Doctor Rory. I've had a stressful morning."

"Do I look like I care, Quinzel?" The pudgy, gray-haired man scowls, leaning forward to glare right into Harlene's face. "Press or no press, you're late, and I only got so much patience for that nut-job. Snap to it!"

She rolls her eyes and turns on her heel, walking into her office and shrugging her blazer off. She pulls on her white uniform coat and grabs the thin folder off her desk and a clipboard, heading down the hall a moment later for Maximum Security.

"Hey, Harlene." The cop at the end of the hall gives her a small smile. Officer Goyer is a nice young man with a handsome face and charming demeanor. He's always polite to Doctor Quinzel and he winces down the hall. "I take it Doctor Rory isn't in a good mood?"

"Neither are the reporters," Harlene replies wittily, and Officer Goyer chuckles. Harlene takes a breath, steeling herself as the police officer opens the cast iron gate to Maximum Security. She gives him one last glance before heading down the hall.

The cells are all individual, sound-proofed against each other to enhance the notion of solitary confinement. Doctor Quinzel heads down the hall, her heels tapping and echoing on the cement floor and walls.

Coming to the last cell, Doctor Quinzel takes a deep breath, trying to prepare herself as she pulls out the key to the cell. She straightens her coat out, and slowly unlocks the door.

-

One third of the cell is separated from the other by a thick, clear plate spanning the entire space of the room. Doctor Quinzel steps in, shutting and locking the dead-bolt door behind her. It clangs with an ominous echo of finality that resonates through the cell.

"Time for _nee_dles, nu_r_se?"

Doctor Quinzel looks up, heart hammering in her throat.

He stands in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, legs crossed and arms bound in a ragged straight jacket. His gaze is fixed on Doctor Quinzel, who steps forward to the glass, face stone-cold and eyes returning the intense stare. His pants are torn and faded gray, and his face is dark, marred by the scars across his mouth and otherwise untouched.

Even without the face paint, he's intimidating.

"Not at the moment…" Doctor Quinzel trails off, not sure what to call him. 'Sir' sounds too polite, and this beast doesn't deserve the respect, yet she can't think of anything more to say. "…I'm Doctor Quinzel- I'm your doctor, and we're going to be having happy hour for three hours every day except Sundays."

He steps forward to the glass, tongue darting out across his lips, his head inclined back slowly before he answers. "Sounds like fun… _Doc_."

Doctor Quinzel's lip curls in a disgusted gesture, and she pulls up a chair from the corner and sits before the glass, crossing her legs. "So what do you prefer? Joker, the Joker, Mister J…?"

He doesn't answer, but regards her a moment, head still inclined back. "You like your job, Do_c_?"

Doctor Quinzel's icy eyes glare up at him, and she frowns further. "It pays the bills."

"Yeah, but you're dealing with _me_." He steps back to lean against the wall. "That ain't required reading- do I have a secre_t _admirer?"

Doctor Quinzel sighs, writing down at the top of the file, _this is going to take a while…_

"Of course not, Mr. J." She finally answers, opting for the impromptu nickname as she glares at him. "I'm here to give Gotham all the right reasons to have you executed. I'm here to put to rest the injustice you set loose on Harvey Dent. And I'm here to make sure that by the time everything's said and done, you won't have anything to laugh about."

The man on the other side of the glass lets his tongue dart out once again before he grins. "I'm looking forward to _it_, Doc."

-

Harlene looks over her notes in her office, frowning at them. _The Joker is a psychopathic, mass-murdering, schizophrenic clown with zero empathy. There's nothing consistent about him, only that he is completely and incurably insane._

"Hello there."

Harlene looks up to see a timid young doctor standing in her doorway, his sandy hair covering his green eyes, his hands nervously tucked into his pockets. She recognizes him and grins.

"Doctor Tetch." She smiles, spinning around to address him. "Busy day, hmm?"

"Not really. Just the routine stuff." He answers, giving her a shy smile in return. "S-so how was your first big day?"

Harlene slips off her glasses, running a hand over her eyes and exhaling. "Ugh, you don't want to know. That thing can't even be called human."

"Really hate him, don't you?" Doctor Tetch observes, to which Harlene nods.

"He's a psychotic criminal," She ripostes, putting her glasses back on. "He's killed innocent people for no reason, ruined lives and put Gotham through more grief than even this city deserves."

Doctor Tetch nods to himself, looking at his pockets before plucking up the courage to ask a question. "W-well if it was really so stressful, maybe we can grab a bite or get a drink together?"

Harlene gives the timid young man a sincere smile, yet shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Jervin. I've got a lot of paperwork to process and I just want to get some sleep."

"O-okay, that's cool." Doctor Tetch says, nodding to himself and making his way out into the hall as Harlene closes up her office.

"Consider it a rain check," She says with a kind, sympathetic tone. "I'll take you up on it some other time."

In fifteen minutes, she's stepping out of the main building to her Jetta parked in the parking lot. Nervously, Harlene looks around; she feels like she's being watched and quickly gets in the car and speeds off.

-

Batman stares after Doctor Quinzel's car, focused on trying to find out more about her. All he knows at the moment is that she was former friends with Harvey Dent and moved to Gotham not two weeks ago to begin working at Arkham. Before that, she'd been living in Philadelphia.

It's not hard to follow her car through the late traffic. She's a creature of habit, it seems. Predictable and fastidious in her methods- the same route to and from work. The same attire of a pressed skirt-suit and the same glasses and cold expression.

She's everything the Joker was not, and Batman realizes that this is probably why Harvey would had wanted her to take on the job. She is a pillar against the Joker's psychological storm. The only question Batman has is if the pillar will stand firm, or slowly grate away in the constant assault.

-

"Bruce Wayne?"

Bruce turns around slowly to see who addressed him. He knew it was Harlene, and gives her his most charming smile. She stands in a long black coat, glasses poised on the bridge of her pale nose. "I didn't think I'd see the Prince of Gotham here."

The cemetery is quiet in the fall weather, Bruce and Harlene both looking down at the graves, placed side by side- Harvey Dent and Rachael Dawes.

"I didn't think I'd see anyone here, let alone a beautiful woman." Bruce wittily replies. Harlene flushes and fights back a small smile.

"Doctor Harlene Quinzel." She introduces herself, extending her hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wayne." In the hand that Bruce doesn't take is a bouquet of deep red roses. Sighing, she places six at the base of Harvey's grave, and the other six on Rachael Dawes'.

"You're the doctor treating the Joker, aren't you?" He asks, trying to sound clueless. Harlene nods slowly, closing her eyes for a moment.

"Yes, I've been treating him for almost two weeks now." She replies, recounting each grueling day in her mind.

"I wouldn't be able to do it." Bruce admits, thinking to himself, _I'd beat him to a pulp in the first hour._ Harlene sighs, shrugging to herself moreso than to him.

"He's in a box and he's a hopeless case." She answers, not concerned with patient-doctor confidentiality. "He'll rot in there for the rest of his life, thank God."

"What kind of doctor wishes her patients won't get better?" Bruce wonders with a smirk tugging at his lips. He slips on his sunglasses as Harlene holds back a small laugh.

"When your patient is that man, you learn that all doctors have their limits." She explains, looking around. "So, I should scoot. Perhaps I'll see you around, Mr. Wayne."

"I hope so, Doctor." He answers, again shaking Harlene's hand.

-

"You going to tell me how you _really_ got those scars, Mr. J?" Doctor Quinzel asks, checking her watch for the time. The Joker glances over at her from his corner, wetting his lips with his tongue before speaking.

"So is Quinzel sup_posed_ to be your whole name, or do you got a firs_t_ name?" He asks- he always answers the questions he doesn't like with a question of his own. Doctor Quinzel rolls her eyes and humors him.

"My name is Harlene Quinzel." She answers, and the Joker's face cracks into a marred grin. He stands up slowly, walking over to the glass.

"Aaaah, yes…" He hisses, forehead resting against the pane. "Best _buddies_ with Harvey Dent once upon a time. Y'know he didn't look too bad with half his face melted o_ff_. It was a really dynamic look-"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Harlene screams, slamming the clipboard down on the floor and launching to her feet. "I've had to put up with your crazy little antics for two weeks, you vile little…"

Doctor Quinzel steps back and takes a deep breath. "We're cutting sessions down to an hour a day. When you're ready to tell me something genuine, we'll be talking more. Other than that, don't expect much more human interaction."

She'd already figured out the anarchist's need to effect others, and taking that away from him had been psychologically crippling, yet it didn't stop him in all entirety. Picking up her clipboard and folder, the doctor realizes that some of her hair has fallen loose from it's ponytail, and she glares over at the Joker.

Sitting again in his corner, he watches her, giving her a wide grin when she looks his way. "Goodnight, Doc."

Harlene growls under her breath, storming out of the cell and locking it. She rushes past Officer Goyer and out of the institute to her car. Eyes welling up with tears, the doctor shakes her head. This one man shouldn't be getting the best of her like this. This one man shouldn't be getting under her skin, into her head, past all the facades and pretensions.

She slams a fist into the car door, and the glass fractures, but doesn't shatter.

Before she can think it over, she's retracing her steps into the institute, getting stopped in the hall by Doctor Rory. "What the hell is going on?"

"Listen, Rory, I'm handling it." She glares at him with no relevance to manners and pushes past. Doctor Tetch peeks out of his office to say something, yet the murderous look on Doctor Quinzel's face is enough to deter him. Officer Goyer asks no questions as he lets her back into the cellblock.

She opens the dead-bolt door, leaving it open as she slams a fist against the glass. "Listen to me, puddin." She growls, a finger pointing at the madman on the other side of the pane. "You aren't getting out of here unless I say so, and the only way I'm ever letting that happen is if you're in a body bag. I hate you and everything you are- you may not have set the bomb off, but you and I both know that Harvey's death is ultimately on you."

The Joker looks at her with raised eyebrows and a bemused smile. "Puddin?"

Doctor Quinzel clenches her teeth, face flushed with her anger. "I will figure you out, you sadistic asshole. I swear."

-

"What's the damage?" Batman asks from the shadows, Commissioner Gordon spinning around to address him.

"This guy came in here with a bunch of little robots, blew the locks and took everything." The commissioner explains, running a hand through his hair. "We got a list- over 850,000 worth of electrical equipment. X-ray machines, microscopes, state-of-the-art technology."

"Anything special?" Batman asks, arms crossed.

"Handheld CAT-scan and MRI devices," The commissioner reads off a print out. "Neuro… neuro-"

"Neurometrical sequencer," Batman intervenes. "It reads brain waves. What else?"

"Half-hour later, they raid a museum," Commissioner Gordon responds, "Weird thing is, all they take are hats. Some of them date back as far as Ancient Egypt, so they'll sell very high on the black market."

"The chances of this guy selling the hats are slim." Batman observes. "They're a kind of trophy." The commissioner nods, face set with a grim expression as he hands Batman a photograph of the culprit. The picture was taken from security footage; a tall man of an extremely small build, his face partially obscured by the brim of his large top hat, which matches his suit that he wears.

"He's calling himself the Mad Hatter."


	2. Chapter 2

"Harlene, there's a package here for you," Officer Goyer's tone is just as puzzled as Doctor Quinzel's face, the woman standing from her seat in her office to take the box from the officer. It's a small box, neatly wrapped in brown paper, addressed on a printed label to Doctor Harlene Quinzel.

"That's odd…" She mutters, slowly opening the package. She never gets mail at work, so it has to be something important. Looking the simple white box over now that it's unwrapped, Doctor Quinzel carefully opens it. "Oh my god."

Inside the box is a small top hat of fine velvet, looking to be an antique. The quality is handmade and when Doctor Quinzel peeks into the had rim for some sign of where it's from, it only has the word Vaudeville in golden embroidery.

"What is it?" Officer Goyer asks, perplexed by the anonymous gift.

"It's a hat. An antique hat." She answers, placing it on top of a stack of papers.

-

"And our top story tonight is the recent break-in at the Colonial Museum, where priceless antiques were stolen," The reporter on the television speaks clearly. "All the artifacts were various headwear including a replica of King George III's inaugural crown that was used in a satire display that was a special for the month. There are no leads other than this security footage."

The screen blips to an overhead angle of the main lobby of the Colonial Museum, a man sitting on the reception desk. He's clad in a long coated suit, a large top hat askew on his head and he speaks very loudly and clearly.

"_'What a funny watch!' she remarked. 'It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is!' _Heh…" He holds a book in his hands, reading from it as small box-shaped robots tow away crates filled with stolen hats. "_'Why should it?' muttered the Hatter. 'Does your watch tell you what year it is?' _Heheh…"

Bruce Wayne frowns at the television, running a hand through his sepia locks. Shaking his head, he turns the television off as the reporter cracks a joke about the weather and moves on to discussing the next cold front.

"It would appear that Gotham has a new thief with an odd fascination to deal with," Alfred sighs, setting the tray in his hands down on the desk before Bruce. The millionaire sighs, tilting his head back in thought.

"He was reading from Alice's Adventures In Wonderland by Lewis Carroll." Bruce replies, recalling having to read it when he was a child. "That's the Mad Hatter."

"I suppose he lives up to the mad end of the title." Alfred observes, handing Bruce a cup of coffee. Bruce takes it, nodding slowly before tilting his head in a minor idea, rather unrelated.

"I think I need a doctor, Alfred." He says slowly.

-

"Doctor Quinzel speaking," Harlene answers her phone, a bowl of macaroni in her other hand. "B-Bruce Wayne? I didn't think I'd get a phone call from you…"

"Well, I figured we ought be on good terms besides cemetery visits and what we see on the news."

"Oh." Harlene feels a blush creep over her cheeks. "That would be nice. I didn't peg you for the chat-on-the-phone kind of guy."

"I'm not," Bruce admits. "I was actually hoping that we could meet up for a cup of coffee."

-

In a warm café out of the cool autumn weather, Harlene finds herself sitting across a small table from Bruce Wayne at a little coffee shop not to far from her apartment. It's a petite relief from the badgering reporters and stress-inducing sessions at Arkham. For Bruce, it seems a nice reprieve from being a billionaire playboy.

Harlene takes a sip from her coffee before speaking, "So, Bruce. Why did you _really_ ask me to coffee?"

Bruce looks at her with a puzzled expression. "Really? I have a weakness for women who I can carry on an intelligent conversation with."

Harlene shakes her head with a small smile. "I see- the supermodels aren't cutting it these days?"

The two talk small talk, alternating between Bruce's travels and Harlene's hobbies. When the two are satisfied with their caffeine intake, they both stand, Bruce insisting to foot the bill. Standing, Harlene makes to grab her coat, only to find Bruce slipping it over her shoulders.

"What a gentleman." She smiles, running a finger along Bruce's chin. The said gentleman smirks in reply, and the two step out of the café. As soon as they do, a woman storms forward towards Harlene. She's an older woman of stout build, and Bruce moves to say something, but Harlene grabs his wrist to stop him.

"You sick, depraved bitch!" The woman roars, and she lashes out, punching Harlene mercilessly. Harlene closes her eyes, accepting the assault before turning back towards the woman.

"Mrs. Thomas." Harlene addresses the woman. "I'm terribly sorry about your husband's death, and I know you find it appalling that I'm treating his killer. I'm not doing what I do for money. I'm not doing it to try and prove anything."

"T-then _why_?!" Mrs. Thomas asks angrily.

"Like your husband, it's my job to make things better," Harlene answers, resting a hand on Mrs. Thomas' shoulder. "And people with that responsibility have to do things that other people don't want to do. Or can't stand to do. But they do it because it's right." Satisfied that she's made her point, Harlene turns to Bruce.

Bruce blinks a couple of times, a bit taken to the small speech the doctor gave. He understands why she and Harvey were such good friends- they shared the same ideals and the same determination. When she walks over to him, Bruce gives her a small smile, which she returns with a quiet "c'mon".

-

"Nice to see you, Doc." His dark eyes are on her as she steps into the room and locks the dead-bolt door behind her. "I think I see a shiner- _rough_ boyfriend?"

"I don't waste my time with things like boyfriends." Doctor Quinzel replies coldly, sitting down in her chair and pulling out her pen. "What about you, Mr. J? Ever have a missus or something?"

"Here or there," He answers vaguely. "Y'know, the problem with straight jacke_ts_ is that you can never scratch your face. My nose is killing me."

"Deal with it," Doctor Quinzel replies unsympathetically. "What will it take to get you to tell the truth? I've looked through every file out there on you. Your stories never match up, you've burned off your fingerprints-"

"Actually," The Joker interjects, standing and walking over to the glass. "I cut them o_ff_."

"Fine, you cut off your fingerprints," The brunette corrects herself, "You have no birth certificate, social security, real name… it's like you don't exist."

"See? That's the great thing about it!" The Joker grins, rolling on the balls of his feet, head tilted to the side as he speaks. "It's like I don't exist, but I _do_. I'm right here, where everyone _thinks_ they want me."

"Here? You mean committed?" The doctor replies, "Yes, everyone _knows_ they want you here."

"See, that's not the whole thing." The Joker smirks, and somehow, Doctor Quinzel knows that if he could use his hands, he'd be pointing to her. "Everyone says it's good that I'm lo_ck_ed up. Everyone says they think I'm the bad guy here, but really… I'm like _coffee_."

Doctor Quinzel's veins freeze over. "Coffee?"

"I'm something you need daily to really wake up." He answers, voice oddly low. His tongue darts out over his lips. Doctor Quinzel tells herself that it has to be a coincidence he used coffee as a reference. "I wake people up. Liven the senses, and get them thinking."

"So you say," She replies callously, writing down all he'd just said in shorthand. "The people out there don't need you." The Joker leans back into the wall once again, shrugging as he does.

"This coming from the woman getting pushed around for being my newe_st_ doctor." He retorts coolly. "Tell me, Doc: you feel like you're doing a _service_? You feel like you're accomplishing something by being here? The only one really changing here is _you_."

Doctor Quinzel hadn't been expecting that observation. "I don't know what you mean."

"Keep playing it close to the vest, Doc." He sighs, tongue running over his top teeth. "Keep acting the calm, cool, collected goodie-_t_wo-shoes. It makes me feel special knowing I get you _riled_ so easily. All I gotta do is drop a few choice words about Mr. Dent-"

"I lost my composure once, Mr. J." Doctor Quinzel retaliates, voice too level to be genuinely calm. "It won't happen again."

"The Batman ain't the only one in Gotham wearing a ma_sk_." The Joker observes, smile creeping over his chapped lips. "I just can't wait to brea_k_ yours."

Doctor Quinzel leaves early for the day.

-

Doctor Quinzel shakes her head, dropping her glasses on the desk and rubbing her hands over her eyes.

"Hello, Doctor Quinzel."

She spins around in her seat to see Doctor Tetch standing there. She gives him a weak smile, "Hey, Jervis. How are you?"

"A-alright." He answers, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I see that hat you got in the mail is gone."

"Yeah…" Doctor Quinzel sighs, exhaustion creeping over her. "I found out it was one of the stolen hats and sent it in to the police."

"O-oh? They didn't suspect you?" Doctor Tetch asks, sandy hair hiding his nervous, pale face.

"No," She answers, stretching. "They think that someone found it and sent it in to me to get me arrested."

"W-what if it was really the Mad Hatter?" Tetch asks, "L-like what if he's your secret admirer?"

Doctor Quinzel shakes her head with a smile. "Oh, I doubt it. He's got a bunch of electrical equipment to keep himself happy."

Doctor Tetch nods, not saying anything for a moment. "O-Okay, well… I'm going back to work."

"See you," Doctor Quinzel answers with a small smile. She turns back to her desk and grabs her purse, leaving for the night.

-

Yet again, Doctor Quinzel has the sensation of being watched, and it unnerves her more than it did last time, as though being watched by someone else. By someone worse. The young doctor hurries to her car, feeling that she needs to get out of the open.

She reaches for the door handle, gripping it as a white-gloved hand smacks over her mouth. The hand holds a bit of fabric, and it's too late for Doctor Quinzel to realize that it's something to knock her out.

Everything goes black.

-

Slowly, Harlene's eyes open and she winces, a headache cresting her consciousness as she looks around. "What…?"

"Finally awake, are we?" A bubbly voice asks, Harlene looking around to see she's tied into an armchair in front of a very large, long table. On the table are piles of books, tea kettles, hats, tea cups, plates of food, and more hats.

"W-who are you?" Harlene asks, struggling against the ropes binding her. The voice's owner comes into view at the other end of the table. A scrawny man of slight build clad in a lime green suit and large black top hat, his sandy hair combed back and a grin across his face.

"The Mad Hatter, at your service, Harlene." He answers, bowing melodramatically. Harlene's mouth hangs open as she suddenly makes a realization.

"Jervis!" She gasps, "Jervis Tetch! Why are you doing this?"

He walks along the length of the table to Harlene's end, speaking as he does. "Why? I asked you to lunch, and you took a rain check. So I'm cashing in. Would you like some tea?"

"N-no!" Harlene snaps. This is turning out to be the worst day of her life. "I don't want any tea, I want to be set free. Look, I'm sorry that I've been so busy with work, but-"

"You haven't been so busy that you couldn't have some coffee with Bruce Wayne." The Mad Hatter replies accusingly, oddly smiling the entire time. "Oh, that doesn't matter." He waves his hands. "I forgive you, my dear."

"Y-you've been stalking me?!" Harlene gapes, skin crawling. She feels violated, watching the Mad Hatter in a state of horror as he sits down on the table before her. "Why?"

"It should be obvious!" The Mad Hatter laughs, leaning down so that their faces are level. "I don't think you realize just how beautiful you are." He traces a gloved finger down the side of her face, and Harlene tries to pull away from it, but she can't. She's trapped, bound and helpless, unable to free herself from this madman or any of his devices.

"M-mad Hatter, look…" Harlene tries to think clearly through her panic. "I'm really sorry that I blew you off like I did, and I-I would love to have tea with you, but can't we do this s-some other time? Like when I'm _not tied up?_"

The Mad Hatter simply chuckles, picking up a cup of tea off the table and taking a large, noisy sip. "Now, now Harlene. You're already here; why not stay a little longer?"

"Because I. Don't. Want. To." Harlene answers through clenched teeth. "This isn't the way to win me over, Jervis." The Mad Hatter holds up a finger, smiling.

"No, you're right. That's why I have this." He holds up a small top hat- the one that had been sent to Harlene in the first place- and sits poised to place it on her head. Harlene doesn't know what the hat is capable of, but she knows that she doesn't want it on her head. Her stomach sinks and she struggles away from him, but she can do nothing.

She's trapped.

She's helpless.

It's all a blur as the hat rests upon her head. A blur of words and movement; Harlene can feel herself going through the motions- sipping tea, laughing, conversing. She can feel herself moving around the table, she can hear herself talking.

But it's not her. It's as though someone- or something- is controlling and using her body. Internally, she struggles within her self. _This isn't me! I don't want to do this! Stop it! Stop it!_

But she can't stop it and she can do nothing but lay dormant within her own mind. Harlene can't say how long the torment goes on- seemingly for hours. Her mind throbs and her joints ache, and still, she listens to herself talk in horror.

Suddenly, she can feel him against her. She can feel his hands, his face, his skin. She feels nausea curling through her system, her mind weakly protesting all that her body does. _Make it stop, make it stop. Please, someone- anyone!_

Like a haze being lifted, Harlene's vision refocuses, and she becomes acutely aware of the cold warehouse floor she's laying on, her torn clothes, and the gloved hands slowly lifting her onto her feet. Instantly, Harlene struggles, hands fisting and swinging at their target. When the fists collide with armor plating, Harlene stops and looks up with wide, panicked eyes.

"Y-you…!" She shakes slightly, crumbling against the Batman, her face in her hands. She feels an odd sense of shame and tries to tug away from him. Just as she's free of his grasp, a coat is thrown over her shoulders.

"It's alright, Harlene." The Commissioner says comfortingly, pulling Harlene away from the Dark Knight and out of the warehouse. "He's gone- we're searching the area. We'll find him."

But Harlene didn't care where the Mad Hatter was, so long as he was away from her.

-

Doctor Harlene Quinzel is released after spending four days in the hospital recovering from 'physical and mental trauma'. The day after her release, she's back at work, looking around her office aimlessly.

_God knows what he did… I can't remember it all…_ Those thoughts have been plaguing her the entire time she was in the hospital. She tried to shy her mind away from them, nibbling on jell-o and biscuits. She pushed them to the back of her conscious when Commissioner Gordon and his wife would visit.

But she couldn't deny it. It was there the whole time, the dread and curiosity mixing within her. Harlene felt contaminated. She felt violated, wronged… victimized. Her head falls into her hands as she bursts into tears. She shakes her head, just as quickly realizing that crying over the ordeal won't fix it, and she has to be steel when she goes to treat her patient.

-

Fully composed, Doctor Quinzel steps into the cell, locking it behind her. She takes a deep breath before turning around to the glass. From one psychopath to another.

"Hello there, Doc." He purrs, watching her with those unyielding eyes. "Sh_ak_en, not stirred, hmmm?" Doctor Quinzel's icy blue eyes look up to him from behind her glasses, her face expressionless, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.

"I'm just going to let you sit there," She says quietly, "And brood. And I'm going to do the same."

But she knew he wouldn't let it be that simple. She wouldn't get a break while she was with him. "Where's the fire, Doc? No pearls of anger today? Damn, I was actually looking forward to this. You know how to disappoint."

Doctor Quinzel says nothing, eyes averted to her clasped hands. It's silent for a few minutes; long enough to lead her to think that the Joker might actually let her have peace.

But no. Of course he wouldn't.

It starts off as a low grumble, like a kind of purr. His shoulders shake, then his head falls back, and he cackles. He bursts into hard, maniacal laughter and topples onto his side in his hysteria. "That's! That's just! _Pathetic!"_

Slowly, Doctor Quinzel looks up. "Do elaborate, Mr. J."

"You poor, poor little Harley Quinzel." He coos, walking to the glass on his knees. He shrugs in his straight jacket, laughing under his breath. "You poor little girl!"

He laughs again, the sound resonating through the cell. "That's the best joke I've heard in months! You get tangled up with a kid and his hat collection, and all of the sudden, you're a _fucking mouse._ I'll have to write that one down."

Doctor Quinzel hisses, teeth clenched. "You weren't there. You were locked up in this cell and heard about the whole fucking thing thanks to the news."

"Oh, oh… ooooooh, but that's just it!" The Joker snickers, forehead resting against the glass. "Even they paint you as the helpless little victim. And that's it… isn't it? You were the victim. The weak, lonely, _helpless…"_

Doctor Quinzel launches out of her chair, slamming her fists against the glass. _"Shut your fucking mouth!"_

The maniac on the other side of the glass falls over, laughing. "Oh, no. Why would I do that? You're my therapist, I gotta talk to you. I gotta 'open up' to someone… that's just it, isn't it? You were weak and helpless. Yet you think that what happened to you merits sympathy?"

Doctor Quinzel feels the tears welling up in her eyes. "I didn't deserve that! I didn't ask for it!"

The Joker's tongue traces his lips. "Nooo… but you set yourself up for it. You weren't strong enough. You set yourself up to be a victim. You're like all of _them_… out there. Cattle- you're just going from point A to point B every day. You pay taxes, wash the dishes and follow the speed limit. You're Little Harley Homemaker! Even _I_ wouldn't be able to stand myself… how do you do it?"

Tears running down Harlene's pale face, she slams her fist against the glass again. "You're lying… _y-you're lying…_"

When the Joker speaks again, it's so much softer. "But am I? Am I really…?"

No.

He wasn't lying. He was right.

Harlene wasn't strong enough. She was the good girl who played it safe. Prim and proper. Weak. Pathetic.

"Objectified." She whispers, and the Joker grins broadly, tongue laving over his teeth.

"There we go."


	3. Chapter 3

_I just wanted to say a quick thank you to all the people who have reviewed this so far. I really appreciate it- it keeps me going. And thank you, Gir, for being my guinea pig for this fic in the first place. Also, I'm sure the people who read over my reviews like I do noticed that one or two people decided to disapprove of this fic. That's their right, and I hope they realize they're not required to read. If anyone really wants to take anything up with me on this, they can email me._

--

"The kit came back negative for fluids," Alfred's nose wrinkles, "But according to the report, physical trauma was enough evidence."

Bruce frowns at the computer screen in front of him- the security footage from outside Arkham the night Harlene Quinzel was abducted by the Mad Hatter, who is still on the loose. He turns away from the screen to look to Alfred. "I'm just worried that something's going to snap with her. Between this and the Joker…"

"Understandable," Alfred nods, "But you should know, Master Bruce, that all people handle their trauma and their fears differently. Doctor Quinzel is a strong woman; she won't crawl under a rock because of this."

-

Harlene exhales through clenched teeth, eyes closed and sweat trailing down the side of her face. "…fuck."

The cell phone on the table next to her starts to ring, and Harlene takes a breath before answering with a hitched voice. "Hello?"

"Hey, Harlene… is this a bad time?"

"Bruce! Hi! No, it's alright." She answers, slowly releasing the grip her legs have on the machine. The weights clank back into place and she gets up from the machine. "I was just working out."

"Really? What're you working out for? There's a triathlon coming up…"

"Oh, no." Harlene pulls up a hand towel and wipes her face dry. "I'm just getting in shape. What kind of doctor am I if I'm unhealthy, right? Just body-building, gymnastics… some Kenpo."

"Really?" Bruce is surprised.

"Yeah, why? Don't like going out with girls who can fight better than you?" Harlene's voice is playful, teasing even. She hears Bruce chuckle on the other line.

"Not at all." He answers, "But who said you and I are going out?"

"How about another cup of coffee?" Harlene grins, "My place say… five? I'll even order out. You don't want to taste my cooking."

"Alright." Bruce tries to suppress his own smile. "I'll see you then."

-

The dinner goes over smoothly, the two sitting in the living room eating Chinese and watching Star Wars.

"So you've_ never_ seen this movie before tonight?" Harlene asks in disbelief. "That's just extraordinary." Bruce chuckles and nods.

"I was a shut-in." He says with a sigh, looking over the screen with only a mild interest. When he had been waiting in front of Harlene's apartment door, he'd been expecting her to prepare some sort of table-dinner with awkward conversations.

Still, he'd dressed casually, and was happily relieved when she answered the door in jeans and a baggy tee shirt. No table dinner- just Chinese take-out and movies. Bruce was smitten, and he'd admit it now, when Harlene wasn't expecting the rich Prince of Gotham. Just Bruce. No strings attached.

-

Slowly, Bruce's eyes open to see static on the living room television and his head resting atop Harlene's, which rests on his shoulder. They'd fallen asleep on the couch, and Bruce blinks a few times. Just an hour of sleep has left his body aching in complaint at the lack of sleep it's experienced for the past week.

Harlene's baby blues slowly open, and she panics for a moment, startled that she's not alone. "What the-!"

"Relax, Harlene." Bruce says calmly. "It's me, it's alright."

The young doctor exhales slowly, her caramel hair still tied back in a tight ponytail despite falling asleep. The two look at each other in silence for a moment, and Harlene speaks, rather quietly. "I guess you need to be going… it's late."

She follows him to the door, sad to see him go, and he stops at the front door and turns to her. "Harlene…"

"Hmm?" She tilts her head, a small patient smile on her face. Bruce shakes his head with a sigh, pecking her once on the cheek and leaving.

-

"What a _shocker_." He speaks slyly, slouching over the table so his chin can rest on the surface. He's clad in a simple white uniform of a tee shirt and white scrub pants. "Missing for a week, and then I get to leave my ce_ll_ for our next sess_ion_… I think I might just open up with this one, Doc."

"Glad to hear it, Mr. J." Doctor Quinzel sighs, sitting down on the other side of the table. She sets the file and notepad down on the table, watching the Joker intently as she speaks. "I decided that the cell was a bit too constricting."

"Aren't you consider_ate_." The murderer replies snidely. Doctor Quinzel nods with a fake smile.

"I do try." She answers, "I figured we'd switch to a counseling room after a certain amount of sessions anyway."

The Joker smirks, leaning forward and licking his lips. "You wanna know some_thing_?"

"What's that, Mr. J?" Doctor Quinzel queries, writing a couple of notes in shorthand. She glances up at the Joker, but says nothing further, waiting for him to speak. A smile tugging at his lips, he responds, "I was counting on it."

Doctor Quinzel suddenly can't breathe, let alone understand what just happened. Hands are tightening around her neck, squeezing and cutting off circulation. "Now, see… I'm not going to _kill_ you just ye_t_. I know you want it too badly and are too _chicken shit_ to do it yourself."

Harlene rasps, a hand fisting and then her arm swinging. She punches him square in the jaw with a right cross. The Joker stumbles back a bit, but his grip barely loosens. Harlene feels a moment of air and takes it as opportunity, leg jerking up to slam a knee into the maniac's stomach.

"Gua-" She tries to call for the guard, but the Joker comes up behind her, again cutting off her airways with a hand, the other twisting an arm behind her back, making it impossible for her to struggle, lest she break her arm.

"We're going to just calm down, _right_?" The Joker hisses in Harlene's ear. Tears forming in her eyes, she nods, and he eases his grip off her neck. Quickly, he picks up the pen Harlene had been using and walks over to the door. "Now call the guards."

Harlene's lips purse and she shakes her head defiantly. The Joker fixes her with a venomous stare. "If you don_'t_ call them in here, I'll kill them. Call them in, and I'll _just_ maim them."

Harlene weighs the options and shouts out, sounding blatantly distressed. "Guards! Guards!"

The door quickly opens and the two rush in in time for the maniac in the room to swiftly slam his foot into one guard's knee cap and lodge the pen into the eye of the other. He shuts the room door again and storms over to Harlene. She flinches under his touch as he grabs her by her hair and throws her at the man with the shattered knee. "Get his clothes off. _Now."_

"_You fucking liar._" She whispers, looking over at the guard with a writing utensil lodged into his head. The Joker turns to look at her with a quirked eyebrow.

"It was an 'oops'." He defends, tugging his shirt over his head. Harlene pulls the other guard's hat off and looks at the maniac incredulously.

"What are you doing?" She asks sharply, resting a hand on the guard's shoulder to steady him. The Joker rolls his eyes, walking over to the dead guard and yanking the pen out of his eye. There's a spurt of blood and fluid, and Harlene grimaces at the display.

"I thin_k_ we both know what I'm doing, _Doc_." The Joker responds, walking over to the other guard and sitting on his chest. The guard screams in both terror and pain, and Harlene grabs his head, failing to come up with a retaliation or solution. The murderer raises his arm, poised to aim the pen into the guard's throat.

"Okay! Stop!" Harlene snaps, reaching forward. Without a shirt to grab at, she uselessly slams her palms against the Joker's shoulders. He looks at her with a curious stare, frowning with a twist at the corner of his mouth. She sighs, starting to unbutton the guard's shirt, apologizing to the guard. "I'm sorry…"

The Joker snorts, shaking his head. He stands to allow Harlene to finish her job and she again apologizes to the guard as she strips him of his uniform.

-

The Joker looks surprisingly sharp in a uniform, and Harlene glares at him as he adjusts his name tag, sighs, then yanks it off. She flinches at the abrupt gesture and the Joker finally, once again, takes notice of her. "Now what do we do with him…?"

The surviving guard is huddled in a corner, handcuffed to one of the chairs in his white undershirt and boxers. Harlene looks after him apologetically, the guard gagged silent by a sock. "Leave him alone, please- he's not going to call any help anytime soon. He's not interfering with your plans… whatever they are."

The Joker smirks, grabbing Harlene by her hair again, and she growls under her breath. Just because the guards were unable to stop him, doesn't mean she can't. She slams her heel down on his foot, and the Joker winces, chuckling as he does. "See, _that_'s more like it. You're so… _excitable_."

Harlene's hands fist and she lunges, slugging the Joker twice before he grabs her hands, holding them both in one of his own. Still smirking, he pulls out a pair of cuffs off the holster to his belt and snaps them on her. The doctor glares at him with a fit of pure loathing.

"Come on, now," He says, tugging her around haphazardly by the cuffs. Harlene struggles, thrusting a leg between the Joker's, tripping them both up, and they tumble to the floor. He pulls out a pistol, and Harlene mentally curses the asylum allowing guards to carry firearms. He rests the barrel against her forehead. "I wasn'_t_ gonna use this on you, _Doc_. But if we can't cooperate, you're not going to be _walk_ing out of this room."

"What do you want?" She snaps under her breath, so raw with anger that she can't even speak in a normal, louder tone. The Joker laughs at her rage and tugs her to her feet by the cuffs, which isn't a difficult task. The cuffs are too tight, and Harlene lets out a small yelp of pain when strained in them.

"I remembe_r_ you saying a while ago that the only way I'm getting out of here is in a _body bag_." The Joker replies, slowly opening the door. "Let's take a trip to the morgue, Doc."

-

It's only now that Harlene will admit it. She was in over her head from the beginning. She had never expected to be in this predicament, but even without that, she wasn't ready. Doctor Harlene Quinzel was used to serial killers and madmen. She wasn't used to monsters- something that was the only way to describe the Joker.

Those she'd previously treated all had motives and limits. Things to blame for their downfall and their mental states. The Joker had no motives other than impulse, his limits were constantly a haze and no one knew anything about him enough to know why he was the way he was.

-

Walking down the hall, Harlene's head is bowed and her hands are cuffed behind her. The Joker walks behind her slowly, the pistol's barrel resting against the small of her back. They've not run into anyone yet, which Harlene finds as a relief and yet a curse. A relief because that means no one's been hurt, yet a curse as no one knows that the Joker is on the loose with a hostage.

The doors to the Morgue are unlocked, much to Harlene's surprise, and when she opens the door, she steps in liquid. Looking down, she realizes it's blood and gasps. "What the-"

"Shh, shh, shh." The Joker clicks his tongue, grabbing her by her hair once again and tugging her along. She looks down at the body of one of the coroners, shot in the head, and turns her head away. Gathered about the morgue are five men, all scruffy and dirty, looking at the Joker expectantly or at Harlene hungrily. "About _time_, gen_t_lemen."

"We got a van in the back, boss." One of them explains, a tall man with greasy black hair and a hooked nose, his eyes fixed on Harlene in a predatory stare. The young doctor glares back, waiting for the Joker to give the order to have her killed.

"Let's go, then." The Joker replies, oddly cheerful as one of the other man tosses him a duffel bag and they all make their way through another pair of doors. Harlene knows the building well, realizing they're using the onramp that ambulances use to wheel in bodies. It's now that she decides to struggle, and yanks out of the Joker's grasp and runs.

"Get her!" One of the thugs roars, and Harlene dashes back into the morgue, skidding in the blood on the floor and falling to the ground. She winces, her head taking a nasty blow from the tile floor. Still, she struggles to her feet and hurries to the doors to the rest of the asylum.

Just as her chance to warn everyone in the asylum of the escape, a hand clamps over her mouth. Harlene screams into the hand as she's grabbed from behind. She retaliates, elbows slamming into her attacker's chest and leg kicking back into her assailant's groin. He topples to the floor with a pained groan, and Harlene stumbles through the doors. "Someone! There's been an escape!"

Her voice echoes down the halls, resonating and she looks around for a camera, but the hall is isolated. She is isolated. Harlene runs, stumbling in her heels and handcuffs, and turns the corner. "Ah-ah, I don't think so!"

"Aaaugh!" Harlene lets out an anguished cry of pain as a hand fists in her hair and an arm wraps around her chest, binding her to the body behind her. She struggles and grunts in frustration, and the Joker only laughs behind her.

"I'm flattered, Doc, but we don't have time for this," He purrs, tugging her back towards the morgue. Boots slamming against tile echo down the hall, and three guards turn the corner and draw their pistols.

"Let her go! Now!" One of them shouts, and Harlene realizes it's Officer Goyer and looks at him pleadingly. The Joker laughs openly, right at the guards and draws his own gun, complete with a silencer, and fires at all three. Two of the guards are hit in the head, tumbling to the ground. The third, Officer Goyer, moves in time to get hit in the shoulder, and he falls the floor.

"Goyer!" Harlene cries, struggling in the Joker's grasp. The Joker doesn't laugh or drag it out any further, and shoots the last officer in the head. Harlene turns to the Joker and spits in his face, teeth clenched as she waits for the Joker's reaction. The madman's response is a swift smack across the face before he tugs her back through the morgue to the exiting doors.

-

The security footage shows a white van speeding off. Five men, the Joker and Doctor Harlene Quinzel, handcuffed and duct tape smacked over her face. Her white coat is covered in blood front and back, but it's been established that that isn't her blood, but the blood of the coroner the Joker's men killed.

It was also established that Doctor Quinzel put up one hell of a fight. There was blood matching one of the Joker's men and a couple of bullet casings found outside the morgue at the loading ramp, along with one of Doctor Quinzel's heels, the heel part decorated with blood of another of the Joker's men.

Bruce frowns at all the data, his brows furrowed in his concentration and worry. "He's going to use her for something. He doesn't keep hostages around unless they're useful to him."

-

Harlene sports a split lip, the blood from the injury dried on her chin. She's dozed on and off for the past few hours, exhaustion kicking in from all the adrenaline she's spent on trying to escape, fighting the Joker's men, trying to form an escape plan…

She winces, handcuffed to a railing in the meat locker she's been trapped in. It must not be working any longer, considering she's not cold, seated on the torn mattress in the corner. She winces, headache still plaguing her, and thinks over all that's happened.

_I'm still not strong enough. I still couldn't do anything to stop it. I fought, I struggled, and I tried my damnedest. And it's still not enough. What the fuck am I going to do now? It's obvious the only reason I'm alive is because he wants to use me for something._

She blinks a few times, still trying to formulate a plan. At the same time, she can't help but remember what the Joker had said two days ago, about her allowing herself to become the victim. What had she done this time to merit it? What had she not done?

It plagues her, and she slams a cuffed fist against the wall in her frustration. Time has passed and she's still a victim. She's trying to stop it, yet it happens despite her efforts. She comforts herself with the notion that she's still sane; her morals are intact and her mind is uncorrupted. She closes her eyes for a moment, suddenly thinking back to another session with her patient.

-

"_So how well do you sleep?" Doctor Quinzel asked, poised to write notes. The Joker sat in a corner of his cell, head resting against the wall, his fingers tapping together. Doctor Quinzel had his straight jacket removed in the hopes it'd make him more cooperative._

"_We talking literally, or do you mean 'do I feel guilty'?" The clown asked, head tilting as he licked his lips. Doctor Quinzel raised an eyebrow, yet elaborated regardless._

"_Both." She replied, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. The Joker shrugged, standing slowly._

"_You gotta be tired in order to sleep." He explained. "Ain't insomnia listed on my file, Doc?" It was. "And as for feeling guilty? No."_

"_Care to elaborate, Mr. J?" Doctor Quinzel's tone was cautious, herself inwardly hoping to make some progress with this session._

"_The whole guilt thing is just crazy." He answered. "Now _that's_ the real insanity! You do something, and then feel guilty? What's the word… repent! You wanna repent! Either do what you want or don't do it at all. The whole reason anyone ever feels guilty is because they've broken some sort of rule or taboo."_

"_And you don't believe in rules." Doctor Quinzel observed, writing down everything the Joker had said._

"_You ever been a secretary?" The Joker asked out of the blue. "I can just imagine you in a red skirt-suit behind a desk."_

-

"She's out cold, man." Gruff voice, the scent of cigarettes.

"What's the point of us keepin' her 'round?" Another voice, rather nasally. "What the boss want wit' her?"

"Dunno. One 'a his big plans." The gruff one. Someone spits. "Sick bastard, makin' us turn on the fridge on her."

So that's why she's so tired, why she can't seem to open her eyes. Hypothermia- wonderful…

"She ain't dat bad lookin'." The nasal one snorts. Harlene mumbles weakly, but she's unwillingly lethargic. A hand rests on her knee, refreshingly warm. Then her brain registers how much she's starting to hate human contact as the hand slowly slides up her thigh.

"Nnnnghstoooop…" She mumbles, eyes struggling to open. The two laugh, and Harlene musters enough energy to kick out. Her foot collides with something, and she struggles back, weakly trying to get away. In the cold, she doesn't realize the strength she's exerting until there's a sickening snap and she lets out a cry of pure agony.

The pain shoots from her shoulder, and it sobers Harlene from the cold. She shakes her head, tears blinding her vision along with the white haze of pain. Looking around weakly, she realizes that she dislocated her shoulder in tugging against the railing she's cuffed to.

The two men shout something, but she can't focus enough to understand them. There's a slam, and Harlene jumps, realizing it was the meat locker door. Another voice, harsher yet oddly calm. She recognizes it and backs further into the corner.

Then the gunfire begins. Three shots, shouting, and then the ricochets. Harlene can hear the bullets hit the walls, and is about cover her face when it grazes. She cries out again, a hand clapping over her face, the bullet shooting into the mattress beneath her.

The bullet grazed her face, along her left cheek and her forehead; she hisses in agony, the salt of her tears stinging at the wound. A hand grabs her by the neck abruptly, and she hears The Joker's voice very clearly through it all, as though it's in her own head. "Cut out the screaming, little Harley Homemaker. It's just a scratch."

"B-but… my arm…" She feebly retorts, whimpering as she's pulled to her feet by the hand squeezing at her neck. Standing, she's faintly aware she's no longer cuffed, and knows that she's too hurt and cold to actually fight.

"You'll live."

He grabs her by the scruff of her jacket and starts to drag her out of the meat locker, but she screams, the jacket putting pressure on her dislocated shoulder. He curses under his breath and grabs her by her waist, slinging her over his shoulder and leaving the meat locker. "Y'know, I think this is the most grief I've had to go through with a hostage. Ever."

"I… feel so… accomplished." Harlene weakly replies with a sarcastic tone. The Joker snickers, but doesn't say anything more, dropping her into a seat. Her vision is starting to return, and she looks around- a simple room. Filthy, windows of broken glass, and otherwise derelict. Just a table with two chairs.

The Joker rolls up the sleeves of his purple shirt, a tackle box on the table in front of them. Harlene blinks a few times, suddenly realizing that there's blood running down her face, and winces to keep it out of her eye. She lifts a hand to touch at the blood, only to have it yanked away.

Harlene looks up in disbelief, but before she can say anything, there's a cotton swab on the cut on her forehead. She hisses in pain, taking the swab and dabbing at the would, disinfecting it while looking over at the Joker nervously. She glances at the tackle box, and sees all manner of sharp tools inside, some bottles, some bandages.

The Joker suddenly stands from his seat and kneels in front of Harlene's taking her dislocated arm in his hands. Harlene's voice is shaky as she speaks, "W-why are you doing this?"

"I can't work with damaged goods." The Joker reasons. "You're no good to me banged up." That said, he mercilessly twists Harlene's arm; the doctor screams, her arm makes another nauseating snapping noise, and the pain is replaced with a dull ache.

"So it's that simple." Harlene says, blinking a few times. "I'm just a pawn."

"Yup… what, did you think you were special?" The Joker leans forward, dark eyes seeming to pour into Harlene's sky-colored ones. Harlene quickly looks down at the blood-covered swab in her hand. "That's what I thought."

Harlene's eyes snap up to glare at him. "Now, now, Mr. J. I don't need you trying to degrade me just because I'm your hostage."

"Riiiiiight." He sighs, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head. Harlene glances at the tackle box, seeing a knife, poised for the taking. She glances back at the Joker, who quirks an eyebrow. She moves.

In two seconds, Harlene is straddling the Joker's chest, the chair fallen back, her knees digging into the dirty floor. The knife is in her hand, resting against the Joker's throat. "Now, you're going to let me go, or I kill you. That simple."

The Joker fixes her with a pointed stare, smile tugging at his lips as his tongue traced over them. "Sounds like fun, Doc."


	4. Chapter 4

The blindfold makes Harlene nervous, the ropes make her uneasy, and the gag makes her sick to her stomach. She winces, shaking slightly in the seat, knowing that this could very well be the end of her life. She thinks over all that she knows about the Joker.

He could be using her as a message- _I can't be fixed, so don't try it._ She internally shakes her head. That doesn't seem to fit right. He could simply use her for the fact she's been saved by the Batman once already.

The bandage on her forehead itches.

-

_Doctor Harlene Quinzel frowned at the papers set in front of her. Various notes and some of the Joker's personal effects from when they brought him in. His script from the Gotham City Ferries attack, a list of phone numbers, a map._

_Doctor Quinzel furrowed her brows at a light blue napkin, written on with red Sharpie._

"_The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules."_

_She wrinkled her nose at the whole idea. Rules were put in place to keep people safe. To keep things organized and make sure everyone colored inside the lines._

-

Harlene drags in a shaky breath, shifting in her seat. It's close, and she can almost reach it. She had tried to threaten the Joker with ending his life or her freedom, but his men had intervened.

Luckily, she'd made enough of a scene that none of them noticed her slipping one of the little scalpels from the tackle box into the waistband of her skirt. It was a risky move, sure- she could get cut, they could have realized she'd taken it- but still, Harlene felt a step ahead in the game.

She dipped her fingers into the back of her skirt, feeling along the lining until she touched cool metal. There. Breath hitching, she struggles and after a moment, finally pulls the scalpel out of her skirt. She positions it to the ropes around her wrists and starts to cut.

There's an abrupt banging, and Harlene stills. Someone is banging on metal, not to far from where Harlene sits. Still, she's wary of giving away where she is, and concentrates on cutting her bounds first.

As soon as her wrists are free, she cries out. "I'm in here! Hello! Let me out!"

More banging, and Harlene slams her foot down on the floor, surprised by the clang. She abruptly realizes that she's in some kind of container and quickly starts to try and get out. More banging, people shouting and Harlene cries out again. "Get me out of here! I'm in here! _I'm in here!"_

There's clanging, and Harlene's almost cut her way through the ropes binding her torso, when hinges creak and Harlene sees a faint light from behind her blindfold. People are shouting, and she sighs in mild annoyance. "Hey! Just calm down and tell me what the _hell _is going on."

A hand rests on her shoulder and when he speaks, Harlene realizes he must be crouched in front of her. "Harlene, it's Commissioner Gordon. We're going to get you out, but you need to try and stay calm."

"What, am I hooked up to a bomb or something?" Harlene wonders, honestly cynical towards mortal danger at this point. The Commissioner laughs nervously.

"In a manner of speaking." He answers. "We only have about 15 minutes…"

"No pressure." Harlene gives the Commissioner a small smile. "I almost cut my way through the ropes on my own…"

The Commissioner pulls the blindfold off Harlene, and she realizes that they're moving. She looks over to the opened doors of the container and gasps. "We're in the air."

"If you had finished cutting your ties, you'd have cut this whole thing loose." Gordon explains, and Harlene looks around to see that the ropes she's tied with and tied to run through holes at the base of the container. The chair she's bound to is the anchor that keeps everything suspended.

"I don't think that's covered by my health insurance." She mutters, cracking a joke at a time of great mortal peril. Harlene feels oddly calm, despite the predicament at hand. She can feel the anxiety- the _fear_- radiating off everyone in the container. Even Gotham SWAT is nervous. She could die in mere seconds, yet an odd serenity has fallen over Harlene's being. A SWAT member is trying to figure out the network of rope, his hands shaking.

"You." Harlene turns her head to him, voice steady and reassuring. "What's your name?" The SWAT member is surprised by her addressing him.

"S-Strausser, ma'am." He studders, and Harlene gives him a small smile.

"Take a breath, Strausser." She assures. "You've got all the time in the world." The soldier does take a deep breath, the shaking in his hands lessening.

The snapping outside the container alarms the policemen, and Harlene closes her eyes as the container starts to sway more intensely. She takes a deep breath as Gordon instructs everyone to stay still.

_Is it suicidal to not be afraid of dying?_ Harlene wonders, finding the question amusing at worst. The scalpel in her hands is pointed upward, and out of everyone, she's the only one who doesn't hit the ceiling when the container drops.

-

The metal is hot to the touch; Harlene stands from the chair, the ropes having loosened upon falling. Fire surrounds the container, engulfing the metal coffin in smoke. Harlene is paying attention to her arms. In the fall, the scalpel shot out of her hands, slicing her wrists in the process. She's bleeding, she looks at the wounds…

And laughs.

Harlene laughs, genuinely and continuously as she grabs the Commissioner by his coat and slings one of his arms over her shoulders. She laughs as she drags Commissioner Gordon to the container entrance, and laughs as they stumble out. Lightly giggling, Harlene looks at what she'd been trapped in. A Semi, suspended from a crane.

It's obvious the truck had a full tank of gas, and Harlene has the sneaking suspicion in her mind that it might blow up, and as soon as she thinks of it- it does. Shrapnel and chunks of the truck explode out, piercing the ground. Harlene watches, her azure eyes in a mild daze as the chunk of metal hurtles towards her.

Commissioner Gordon comes to in time to grab Harlene by her shirt collar and yanks her down. He's sadly not quick enough, and the shard of steel slices across Harlene's right eye. She doesn't scream, doesn't move; she doesn't do anything except crack into hysteria again.

She understands _his_ joke.

-

Slowly, Harlene opens her eyes to a white ceiling and tries to recall how she got here. Her vision's a little fuzzy, but she can think a little clearer. She looks over her arms- an IV, lots of bandages and the odd sensation that this should all be painful, but it isn't….

Harlene can only remember one thing: being in the container… then laughing, laughing, _laughing._ Why had she been laughing? She clicks her tongue in thought, trying to figure it out. She can't remember much, but she knows the last time she laughed.

-

"_C'mon," Harvey smiled. "It'll be fun. You're not going to be a hermit on Halloween." It had been his and Harlene's freshman year of college- Harvey had insisted that he and Harlene check out a Costume shop in town that had just opened up. It was mid-October and the college had been getting ready for a campus-wide costume party._

_Harlene had rolled her eyes; she had shaken her head as her best friend tugged her into the shop. Yet as soon as they stepped inside, Harlene was sold. She tried on several costumes, her attention constantly being grabbed by a porcelain Harlequin mask hanging on one of the walls._

"_Harlene the Harlequin?" Harvey asked, wearing a white mask like those from Phantom of the Opera, a green feather boa and a red marching band uniform jacket. Harlene turned around, about to retort, and instead burst into laughter._

-

Harlene feels the tears roll down her cheeks and wipes them away. Grief is something she doesn't have time for- something she can't afford. She was supposed to be strong, and healing, and right…

Had she been any of those things since coming to Gotham? She had hardly ever been professional with her patient, she'd threatened someone's life and succumbed to the logic of a madman.

…still. _Still._

What he'd said had made _perfect_ sense.

Harlene shakes her head, running a hand through her long, caramel locks. No, the Joker was a homicidal maniac, a sadistic madman, an anarchic delinquent…

_And he was right._

Harlene shakes her head again, her hair shaking loose and falling over her face and shoulders. She raises her bandaged hands to her face, feeling the gauze and medical tape covering her cheeks and forehead. These bandages all happened because of him- because of what he did.

_But that's all because Harlene had set herself up for it. She'd played the victim like a marionette._

Images of Harlequin dolls flash through Harlene's mind. She thinks it all over. Yes, little Harley Homemaker was the perfect victim. Little Harley was a good little girl, who did everything right and followed every rule. What had following rules ever gotten her?

She grabs at the bandages on her face and tears them off. All that following the rules has ever gotten her is misery! Following rules lead her to be rejected, ridiculed, played, prodded, mocked. It had gotten her attacked, assaulted, shot at, and even held hostage.

_Following the rules got her nowhere. _

Harlene's hands fist around the bloody bandages in her hands, and she screams out, the scream raw on her vocal chords before trailing off into a faint little giggle. All her life, all her hard work… was a joke.

And that was what was _so damn funny_. People trying to do the right thing all their lives, and it gets them nowhere. It's like a hamster on a exercise wheel, a cat playing with a toy on a string… they all think they're getting somewhere.

_But they're really not._

She snickers, sitting up completely and looking down at the needles and pipes digging into her arms. She fists the ones in her right arm with her left hand and tugs. Blood spurts out from the violent withdrawal, and she uses the bandages once-covering her face to suppress the bleeding. She does the same with the other and looks around the room.

She stumbles to the cupboards, legs a little weak, and patches her arms up properly. The monitor is flat lining, and she hisses, not liking the relentless _beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep_ the machine gives off. Grabbing a scalpel out of the cupboard, she turns and slams it into the screen of the monitor.

It gives her a jolt, and she breaks into laughter again. She gasps when sparks fly from the monitor and it ignites a flame. Teetering back, she giggles and shakes her head back and forth violently, her hair whipping out into an untamed mane. She grabs some papers from the monitor machine and holds them over the fire before tossing them onto the bed, which ignites almost instantly.

"Missed me, missed me," She sings under her breath. "Now you've got kiss me. If you kiss me, Mister, I might tell my sister…"

She keeps singing under her breath, starting to dance around the room as the fire spreads.

-

Attendants rush down the hall as the smoke alarms go off, heading to the room that Doctor Harlene Quinzel was assigned to, and kick the door open to find the room engulfed in flames.

It takes the fire department ten minutes to get to the hospital, and by the time they arrive, it's apparent that Doctor Quinzel didn't survive the blaze.

-

Two days later, Commissioner Gordon gets a letter in the mail- a black envelope holding inside it, red paper with black diamonds lining the top, and curved, elegant writing.

_Missed me._


	5. Chapter 5

The autumn weather is gradually giving way to the winter's cold, and people huddle in their jackets as they walk along the sidewalk. The night is overcast, ominous clouds shading the moon from view, and at the Gotham Police station, things are a little crazy.

People run around filing paperwork, and in the sheer chaos, someone slips in unnoticed, clad in a large black trench coat that conceals most of their being. They're used to blending into an environment- it's something they've done for the past few weeks.

Sitting in the holding cells are eight men, all of whom are bruised and beaten, wearing tattered clothes and angry, sore, or tired expressions. They look up to the stairway that leads to the rest of the station as someone slowly steps down it. Boots thunk on the flooring, and from beneath the trench coat, the men can see a glimpse of bright red.

"Hello little boys, little toys," She speaks, voice rounded and when she steps into the light illuminating the space around the cell, the men all stare. Standing in front of the cell door is a woman, clad in a black trench coat decorated by red diamonds around the left shoulder, her hands on her hips to reveal a simple business vest- red on one side, buttoning to a black side, diamonds of the opposite color accenting at the hip and lapel of each side.

Around her waist, over the long-cut top, is a belt, which looks to be like those worn by the police officers in the station- complete with a fire arm, gun holster, and small compartments for tools and effects.

Her crimson jeans aren't torn and are decorated by black diamonds here and there, her boots lightly speckled with bits of mud. She grins, and what has the men so captivated is her face. This young woman's smile is wide, her red lipstick smudged lightly at one corner into a permanent smirk and her eyes outlined by deep black, single lines running down her face and over her scars.

The left scar runs over her eye, said orb icy blue and unharmed. The right scar only marks her cheek, aligned with a scar on her forehead which is barely visible under the black beret cap on her head. Her hair slips out, blonde hues streaked with red, and tangles about in short, messy locks.

"Who the hell are you?" One of the men is brave enough to ask. Hands bound in red leather wrap around the bars, the woman grinning at them all before she speaks.

"I am Harley Quinn," She answers slowly, head reclining as she speaks. "But you boys will be calling me 'boss' from now on."

They all laugh, amused at her declaration of leadership. Another one of the men stands up, a scrawny man with a receding widow's peak, and walks over to the bars with a condescending air. "And who do you think you are, lady? Some kind of wannabe she-Joker?"The men all break into laughter and Harley grins with them, breaking into a light laugh herself. The men continue to laugh until Harley's hand grabs the standing man's shirt and slams him into the bars, his head making a loud clunk against the metal.

"No, no, _no_." She says, tone snide and voice menacing. "I'm not a wannabe anything, boys." She pulls out a balisong, swinging it out of it's handles, resting it against the man's neck. "Especially a wannabe Joker. Now pay attention."

She throws the man away, who stumbles and falls to the floor, the knife having dug enough to draw blood, but not severely enough to kill or mortally would him. "Gentlemen, you can all consider me your new legal representation. You all work for me."

"And why should we do that?" Yet another man says, sporting a black eye and split lip. "We tried workin' for the Joker and the damn clown-"

"Okay, let me stop you there." Harley holds up a finger. She tilts her head, the most innocent of smiles playing on her lips. "The Joker's a complete psychopath- how can a crazy mind like that promise you your cut at the end of the day? He can't."

"And you think you can?" The black eyed man asks. Harley grins broader at him, pulling out a key and starting to unlock the cell door.

"I know I can, boys." She answers confidently. "I know I can."

-

The First Bank of Gotham is somewhat busy this chilly afternoon, the sunlight seeping in through the blinds in the windows as people go about their business. The front door beeps loudly with the introduction of more people coming into the building, and everyone lets out gasps, screams and cries of fear as a gunshot goes off.

"Good afternoon, patrons of First Bank of Gotham!" Harley Quinn grins, walking over to one of the form desks and launching into a back flip to stand on top of it. "It's my pleasure to congratulate you all on becoming today's hostages!"

Men wearing white, red and black masks charge in around her with guns and shouts, yanking people's bags and demanding they empty their pockets, which they all do while looking terrified and helpless. She snickers at them all, somersaulting off the desk to stand in front of them all as one her men walks in with a large bag. "Let's see…."

Harley counts heads, still smiling. "Okay, Bob go see if we have any friends in the offices." One of the men in a red mask nods, hurrying down the hall that leads to the accounting offices.

"What do you want?!" One of the brave hostages asks; an older man in a suit and receding hairline. Harley rolls her eyes at him, walking over and grabbing him by his tie.

"World peace!" She answers, batting her eyelashes. "Not really… if I were to dispel all the little things I want, we'd be here all day. I don't know about you, but I got better things to do than sit in a bank all day."

That said, she pushes the old man against the counter and yanks the cell phone out of his suit pocket. "Thanks."

'Bob' returns with two men, both looking terrified and anxious. Harley smiles widely, chuckling under her breath as she claps her hands together. Her men all turn to pay attention to her. "Boss?"

"Let's get this party started!" Harley giggles, hopping up to sit on the form desk and scan the hostages over. "Please leave all overcoats, canes and top hats with the door man…. Okay, you, you and you and you aaaaand…. You!" She points to each hostage as she says 'you' at them, and three of her men move forward.

They pull open the large duffel bag, revealing it to be filled with what looks like Kevlar vests. The only determining trait to them is the fact that they're covered in small red boxes that everyone instantly recognizes. Harley points out a few more people, still smiling. "You and you… oh, sorry kid we don't have junior sizes. You… oh, he just bugs the hell out of me. Give him one. Aaaaand you."

In a matter of seconds, the people Harley had pointed to found themselves strapped into the vests rigged with explosives; all except three of the hostages stand in a small semi-circle, looking confused and terrified.

Harley giggles under her breath and taps a leather-gloved index to her painted lips. Meanwhile, all but two of her men have disappeared to the vaults, bagging thousands of dollars in gray duffel bags.

Harley smiles and pulls out the pistol holstered to her belt. "Alright ladies and gents, as you can see, there are all but three of you currently strapped into the latest fashion in explosive devices! The reason for this is simple-" The deranged woman pulls a small box out of her trench coat, revealing it to be a detonator. "You three are gonna have to figure out how to deactivate this detonator. You have ten minutes, and if you succeed, you'll live to be helpless another day! You fail… the cops are going to need zip-lock bags to deliver you to your families."

The hostages all look appalled, terrified and infuriated. Harley giggles, watching them all start to bicker quietly amongst themselves. "So! You three are going to try and deactivate this puppy, and you're stuck with what I give you."

Harley steps forward to the three hostages that aren't vested, and hands them a pencil, a paper clip, nail clippers and a stick of gum. "Inspector Gadget could disarm a bomb with this crap."

"You're insane!" A woman finally snaps, hands fisted at her sides. Harley turns to her sharply, the stock of her pistol colliding with the hostage's face. The helpless woman topples to the floor and the child that had been spared a vest runs to her. Harley snickers under her breath and turns to the masked men around her.

"Let's vacate, boys." She replies calmly, and they all step out of the front doors, which make a deafening bang of their security locks locking, trapping the hostages inside. The three un-vested captives turn to the little detonator box that's resting on the form desk, glancing between each other.

The small clock on it says 9:32 and counting…

-

Harley sits in the passenger seat of the van, typing away on a laptop; one of the laptops belonging to the security company working for the bank. Pressing a few keys, she shuts down the entire building and deactivates the alarms before turning off the laptop and tossing it out the window into a trash can.

The van sits about a block away from the bank, just barely out of view. The explosion resonates, the buildings around them shake slightly, and Harley shakes her head with a laugh. "Drive."

-

_"I don't like seafood." Harlene admits, looking down at her black pumps. "Some fish make me sick, actually."_

_"Oh, now I know." Bruce smiles as the two walk along in the park. It's a calm, brisk afternoon- the sun setting behind the cityscape. Their knuckles keep grazing as they walk side-by-side. "You remember what you said to that woman… Mrs. Thomas?""Yes, I remember." Harlene sighs, shrugging into her small denim coat even further. Bruce steps back to regard her; the tight ponytail, the jeans, heels and tee shirt. The attempt at casual- he can see right through it, and he can also see she's cold in the autumn weather._

_He shrugs out of his black trench coat and hands it to her, leaving him in his simple polo and jeans. Harlene looks from the coat in Bruce's outstretched hand, to Bruce, and back. "Oh, it's okay…""Harlene." Bruce says softly, and Harlene sighs, taking the black trench coat and slipping it over her shoulders. Bruce gives her a small, genuine smile, and Harlene nervously returns it._

_She had been hesitant to go out when Bruce had called, and she still seems that way. Still, the billionaire had insisted Harlene come out and do something with him, and his pleased tone when she agreed had brought a smile to her face._

_"Why did you bring Mrs. Thomas up?" She asks, baby blues swimming with confusion. "Oh… I just remembered what you'd said to her. About doing the right thing even when you don't want to." Bruce admits, careful with what he says. Harlene blinks a few times, looking the man over._

_"Bruce… if you're having a hard time deciding something, you can talk to me about it." She says gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You can come to me with anything."_

_Bruce winces inwardly before he shakes his head. "It's nothing; I just thought that was really admirable of you…"_

_Harlene smiles, walking along the sidewalk, and almost instantly Bruce is beside her. Her fingers are icy as they intertwine with his, and they smile towards each other as they hold hands, walking along the park and watching the skyline change colors._

-

The police are being careful with this one; Commissioner Gordon looks over all the information they've compiled so far, frowning as he does. Photographs taken from security cameras, a letter to the police commissioner…

_Missed me._

_Dear Commissioner,_

_You're still new to the job, so I thought I'd help out by breaking you in. Like a new pair of shoes. I hate to use a pun, but something tells me that in the months to come, your job will be explosive._

_'Til Then,_

_Harley Quinn_

The Commissioner doesn't like any of it. The first thing he had done was have an expert compare Harley Quinn's handwriting to Harlene Quinzel. It wasn't a match, and oddly enough, Harley's handwriting is smoother and more collected than Doctor Quinzel's.

"What have you got?"

Commissioner Gordon turns around to the Batman, who stands by the office door, which is shut and locked. "New grime in the gears."

Gordon motions to his desk, which is decorated with reports and photographs, either for the Joker or Harley Quinn. "Both are on the fritz, and it seems they're competing for highest body count."

"So it's definitely Harlene Quinzel." Batman replies, having wanted to be absolutely sure before proceeding. Gordon nods solemnly, looking down to a picture of her swinging a sledgehammer at the camera.

"She's got a method." Gordon explains, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses and handing the Batman a picture. "All the jobs she does are on the theatrical side; putting hostages in a life or death situation and leaving them to get themselves out using tools she gives them."

"No one has succeeded yet." The Batman deduces, frowning at the picture. He can't help but feel this is personal, yet again. That it has to be him to bring Harley in; save her, even. "Has she named any demands?""No. She's just hitting building after building. Banks, law firms, offices…" Gordon glances at the masked man to find not there.

-

"She's the way she is now because of the Joker." Bruce sighs, looking over all the data they've complied. Harley Quinn has demolished two banks, half a strip mall, burned down a law firm and sunk a commercial tour boat.

"Perhaps on some level, yes." Alfred partially agrees. "A man like the Joker won't manipulate his pawns if he knows they'll try to steal the spotlight."

"There's more to it than that." Bruce replies, leaning on the desk and resting his head in his hands. The bunker is still base of operations, despite Wayne Manor's reconstruction being almost complete. "Harlene was always promoting morality. She was always so orderly."

"If I remember correctly," Alfred holds up a hand. "A lot of wives in the 1950s seemed the orderly, prim and perfect women of every working man's household. No one mentions that most of them were going insane, trapped in a social prison."

"She could have come to me if something was wrong. She knew that." Bruce can't help but feel that he let Harlene down in some way. "First Rachel, then Harvey, now her…"

"You can't blame this on yourself, Master Bruce." Alfred defends, a hand resting on Bruce's shoulder. "Doctor Quinzel put herself to the hazard because she believed she was doing the right thing. What's become of her now isn't something you've done. What she's turned into is because of her and what's been done to her."

-

Harley screams, throwing the newspaper down on the table. All her men stop their own hollering to look at the woman.

"All I read about is that stupid clown, that worthless hat freak, and the _goddamn_ Batman!" Harley growls. "They're pinning what I've done on everyone _but_ me!"

"Maybe they don't know you, boss." One of the men points out, causing Harlene to turn sharply and glare at him. She pulls a black butterfly knife from her pocket and stalks over to the men, looking fit to pounce. They all wince, sighing in relief when she does nothing.

"I think I should take a more direct approach." She decides suddenly, turning on her heel and stalking out of the room.

-

It's a calm afternoon, the business meeting are over and the executives are all out to golf. Bruce Wayne sits in Lucius Fox's office, discussing business plans when Fox's secretary bursts into the room, looking alarmed and nervous. "You might want to look at the news, Mr. Fox."

Fox turns to the flat screen television hooked up on his wall, turning it on and to the news. A young news anchor looks at the camera grimly as she speaks. "We have had no choice but to comply with their demands and show you the following footage."

The screen blips out to a woman in a red suit, sitting in a duct-taped arm chair. Her crimson lipstick is smudged across her full lips and her red-streaked hair is tied back in a neat ponytail. Her azure eyes are surrounded by black that trails into harlequin lines over the scars across her cheeks.

"Good afternoon, Gotham." Harley Quinn greets, legs crossed and clad in fishnet stockings. She looks directly into the camera. "My name is Harley Quinn and I'm here to share a few illuminating pearls of wisdom with you."

Bruce's stomach bottoms out in a sensation of dread and anger. Fox glances over at him but doesn't speak.

"First off, the police ought to let this broadcast finish; if they don't, the entire news station will be nothing more than a crater in the middle of Gotham." Harley's tone is sinisterly delighted. "Now, to the people of Gotham. You all have no idea who I am. Gotham National Bank, Uptown Mall, First Bank of Gotham City… all ruined by me, and the police know it! Yet they keep it from you, pointing fingers at the Joker and that winged freak, Batman. Is that really a police force that you can trust? One that _lies_ to you?"

Bruce sighs; Gordon had insisted on keeping Harley under wraps, for fear that people would panic at her sudden 'change of heart', but the secrecy had consequences of its own.

"And that's not all they've lied about." Harley grins, holding up a large photograph. The instant Bruce realizes who it is, he feels a wave of alarm wash through him. It's a security photograph of Harvey Dent in the bar he shot Detective Moore in. It's a clear photograph, obviously restored, showing Dent seconds from opening fire.

"I hope everyone remembers the White Knight of Gotham!" Harley says in a low purr. "Harvey, Harvey, Harvey Dent. Former District Attorney turned madman. The moral to this photograph, people of Gotham, is that there _are no_ morals in the end. Even one of the purest men in Gotham fell to madness! Even _he_ had to concede to the knowledge that Gotham _can't_ be cured. It can only be _burned_."

Fox and Bruce both can imagine the stunned faces and panicked whispers rippling through Gotham. Harley throws the photograph down, her icy blue eyes alight as she does so.

"So it's down to this. You can all keep being the helpless cattle you're all known for. You can support that lying joke that you call 'justice', which I can promise will result in a wealthy undertaker, or…" Harley giggles. "Succumb to the truth- you're all surrounded by insanity. By chaos. Embrace it, join it, or get lost in the bloody tied. Decisions… decisions."

The screen cuts to static, then returns to the nervous news anchor.


End file.
